


Bloom

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Movie(s), Sex Pollen, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, a little hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13202757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: The flower’s scent is stronger now. The perfume clings to her fingertips, overlaying the warm smell of her skin, of her body, mingling with the smell of sex already in the air.Or, don't turn your back on the wasteland.A fill for thesmutty_arts prompt challengelist of prompts. It's fromyoukaiyume's prompt, "Sex pollen in which Max brings back a plant for Furi, but shenanigans happen when it blooms".





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoukaiYume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoukaiYume/gifts).



Max wakes up with Furiosa snuggled into him. His shirt has got rucked up and tugged down in the night, her nose against his bare shoulder and her hand tucked under the fabric. She’s still asleep.

She enjoys touching him. They’re guarded about it in public, keeping a little distance, though just occasionally they’ll forget, or can’t resist. In her room, in the dark of a firelit gathering, she’ll reach for him, her fingers finding his skin. It’s a tease, sometimes, a fingertip on the nape of his neck in the garage, her thigh against his under the mess hall table. Or something she does idly, just for the pleasure of contact. She’ll stroke his back or play with a particular tuft of hair, her hand seeking and giving comfort. He likes the idea that maybe she does that in her sleep, too, though it’s a shivery sort of liking, something he’s not ready to look at directly.

It’s still early, the light from the window starting to warm from grey to golden. He had come back yesterday morning, weary from a difficult scouting trip – no major disasters, but a lot of wary, mistrustful encounters. Factions are breaking and reforming in the wasteland, changes of leadership among the scattered communities out there. One major trade route is affected, with a knock-on effect across a whole web of relationships and channels. Everyone is waiting to see what happens next, but there’s a lot to be guessed from how people are waiting, where their attention is focused. Reporting it all had exhausted him, so many words. He went back to her room and dozed off, waking up stiff and cold in his clothes.

Furiosa had brought him hot food and rubbed his aching neck and back, working out the tension. Then she’d unpeeled his clothes and washed him, soaping and rinsing him, teasing with slippery fingers before taking him very thoroughly to bed. She’d been slow and hungry and lingering, so sure of what she wanted, of what they both wanted. He’d come twice by the time she was through, ready to wash him again. He marvels again at the luxury of the Citadel, at being safe enough to go slow, at waking up clean and warm. He marvels at her.

Beside him, she stirs and sighs and falls back into sleep. He kisses the top of her head, lightly enough that it won’t wake her. 

It’s taken time to be this easy. When he started visiting the Citadel, he’d ached for contact and been terrified of it. It’s one of the reasons why he ran, why he came back. Fucking is so much simpler than snuggling, than letting themselves have these small touches. Even now, he can’t always handle it. It’s still strange that she can sleep through a caress, even such a small one, that she isn’t jerking awake and reaching for a weapon. He watches the pale light on her eyelids, on the curve of her mouth, gilding the faint down on her cheek.

It’s bright enough to see across the room, to notice little changes since he was here last. She’s finished the latest revision to her arm, but there’s another project sitting on her desk: it looks like a set of binoculars. There are more plants on her shelf, including the one he’d brought yesterday.

He brings back green. He’s careful about it, not to damage anything that’s surviving out there, but if he can trade for plants, or safely take seeds or slips, he’ll bring them back. The Citadel’s focus is on food and medicine, but he can’t resist other plants too. Over the years, he’s built up a working herbology, on top of what he remembers about houseplants – Jessie had loved them, had filled the whole house with them, teaching him more than he’d realised about their care. It’s strange to come back to that knowledge now, to a part of himself that has been dormant for so long.

There’s still plenty he doesn’t recognise, plants that could be more useful than they look. He brings some things here for examination, and others, he admits, because they’re pretty, because they’ve survived, because he likes the idea of taking them to a place where they can be cared for. They’ve yet to find any purpose for some of the little desert flowers, which might be why he’s given the latest one to Furiosa rather than to the Dag. 

She’s wary around plants. She left the Green Place too young, doesn’t have the usual Vuvalini skill with them. He thinks that can be a sadness for her, a source of tension. She feels she should know more about herb lore, even about basic care. From something Cheedo said, he suspects she consulted the Dag about where to put the plants he’d brought, not quite trusting herself to look after them. She had ended up building this strong little shelf, set into a corner by the window, a sheltered spot that gets early morning sun but not the full glare of the day. It makes a good nursery. The Dag even gives her seedlings, sometimes, little plants that need some coddling before going into the ground, though he’s noticed the seedlings are always duplicates. He can see his own latest plant unfurling in the sunshine, visibly grown from when he put it there last night. Its tight pink bud has started to open, turning towards the light.

Furiosa’s hand moves on his chest, stroking. Her eyes are shut, but there’s a smile just forming on her face. She is definitely not asleep.

“Hello.” Her fingers slide over his chest, her touch becoming firmer and more possessive as she strokes down, long and unhurried. She lets her fingertips curl in the hair of his chest, and straighten to caress his side, down over his hip. Her eyes open as she slips neatly into his shorts to grip his buttock, with a satisfied little noise as she squeezes.

Max pounces, grabbing and rolling her, rearranging them so he’s propped over her. She lies back, grinning up at him, already reaching for his bum again. 

He ducks his head to her breast, letting his scruff of beard tickle her, shifting his weight so he can get at her better. She had slept naked. He still feels more comfortable wearing something, even just a soft shirt. Her room is a fortress, but he’s spent years in the desert, ready to fight as soon as his eyes open. If he’s honest, he enjoys the contrast: still being covered while she’s relaxed and bare, the trust she’s showing him. He’s stroking her, hand curving over firm ribs and fuller, softer breasts, feeling his cock wake up. She has her nub over his shoulder and her hand still roaming, nudging his shorts down. 

Stroking over her belly, he slows down, nibbles her shoulder. Rubbing his cheek against her again, he’s pleased to hear her laugh. They’re not rushing. They have the luxury of safety, the relaxed easiness of having fucked last night; they can take their time. He wants to make her smile.

It’s still quiet outside, still early. He pets her until she squirms, until she’s breathing faster and pushing up against him. Her legs fall wider, then close tight around him. Max strokes down, feels the pulse beating fast in the crease above her thigh. When he parts her lips, he gives a little growl at how wet she is, how deliciously slick. He’d slide down to taste her, but he’s enjoying watching her, seeing her face so open.

He can’t resist teasing a little, his fingers deliberately too light, too slow. She pulls his head in to kiss him, then bites his lip in retaliation. They’re both laughing when he speeds up, gets a gasp out of her, and another. He’s hard against her thigh, tantalising himself as well as her. 

He loves watching her come, loves the way she looks afterwards, pink and sweaty and unguarded, letting him see her. He kisses her again, her nose and her chin, smiling as her hand combs back through his hair, down to his torso again.

That’s not a casual move, because the next thing he knows she’s flipping them, fast and hard, getting on top of him. The blankets slide down, leaving her bare, her nipples hard and her face flushed. He’s staring, seeing the grace of her body and feeling the strong muscle of her thighs. There’s a little breeze through the room. 

Furiosa shifts on top of him, wriggling until his cock is resting firmly against her, his shorts tangled around his knees. She takes her time about it, getting comfortable, then leans in to push his shirt up, hand stroking his belly then sliding the shirt higher to get at his chest. She’s playful, fingers following the line of his ribcage or circling his nipple, finding the spots that make him shiver. All the while, she keeps her hips rocking, a constant, gentle rub of her clit against his cock. 

When she bends further forwards, he catches her left elbow, giving her something to lean on. Moaning, she tips all the way in to kiss him, her body pressed against him, his cock hard between their bellies.

She’s not teasing any more, pushing against him, her hand in his hair and her mouth greedy. They’re both panting, his heart beating fast.

“Want…” he gets out, hands on her hips, nudging her to move up, needing to be inside her. She moves eagerly, squirming into place, sliding onto him and clenching, gripping him wet and tight. It’s a second before she moves again, just holds herself there, gasping. Then they both move, shifting together. It’s intoxicating, that moment when they slide into sync, from watching her to moving with her. He takes her arm again, his other hand firm on her bum, feeling her muscles flex. She’s grinding down, fast and eager, working him. Then she catches his hand and moves it to her clit, green eyes fixed on him. She’s smiling when he comes, nudges his hand away to finish herself while he watches.

Sprawled out under her, Max can smell something new, behind the scent of her heated skin. It’s like a hyacinth, cool but very sweet. The new plant’s flower has opened fully, a deep pink bloom. He remembers when a hyacinth Jessie had planted shot up, a foot taller overnight, its perfume suddenly overwhelming in their small house.

He shifts, sitting up to kiss her, both snuggling a little even though the position’s awkward. With a sigh, she nudges him, getting up to wash. Max watches the water dripping down her back, her thighs, light and water shining on her skin. Standing at the washbasin, Furiosa notices the new flower, too. She reaches out to touch it, fingers just brushing the petals. He grabs the towel as he gets out of bed, heads towards her.

When he starts to rub her dry, she turns to kiss him, her hand cupping his cheek. The flower’s scent is stronger now. The perfume clings to her fingertips, overlaying the warm smell of her skin, of her body, mingling with the smell of sex already in the air. He’s lost interest in towelling her, the cloth dropping to the floor as he backs her to the bed.

She sits down with a bump, half pulling him with her. Max ends up on the floor at her feet, face pressed to her midriff. He kisses down, finding her pubic hair still damp from washing. Her skin is wet when he noses between her legs, fingers holding her open for his tongue.

His knee hurts. Kneeling on the stone floor is a bad idea. He doesn’t care, lost in scent and touch and taste, feeling her twitch and shudder against his mouth. 

The muscles of his leg are burning by the time she tugs him up, his calf and thigh clenched tight against the pain of his knee. He’s only vaguely aware of it, his mind taken up with the touch of her body and his own hard cock, his blood thumping. He wants to sink into her, deeper and deeper.

He groans when she pulls him on top of her, at how her thighs open for him, the urgent way she tugs him in. The smell of her is on his hands, on his mouth. She must be tasting herself when he kisses her. It’s as if her fingertips leave marks on him, spots of urgent heat on his skin. He shouts when he comes, noisy and abandoned. She rolls them again, climbs back on top so she can keep grinding, his cock not soft yet. 

He’s still hard when she climbs off. Furiosa is flushed deep pink, from her cheeks down her neck to her breasts, her cropped hair damp with sweat. 

“Oh fuck, look at you.” She’s staring at his cock, hard and dark and straining for her. When she goes down, it’s as if she’s gorging herself, her mouth hot and hungry. Her knee is against his shoulder, her cunt just out of reach. He can’t resist pulling at her, encouraging her to kneel over him, his hands gripping her bum. She’s dripping wet, scrambling to get herself to his mouth.

They don’t often do this. Mostly, Max prefers to concentrate on one thing at a time, to give it his full attention. 69ing feels like rushing things, and if they’re going to rush there are better ways of doing that, the hard frantic fucks where they grind desperately together. He’s starting to realise that something strange is happening, his body’s apparently tireless response and this unthinking greed, but it’s hard to focus on that when she’s right there. He bites the soft flesh of her inner thigh, turns his head back to lick hard at her clit. She’s moaning around his cock, pushing back into his face, swallowing and gulping as she does. Her legs are already trembling. When she comes, she slips into a heap, sprawled over him, so heavy on his face that he can hardly breathe. She’s still licking at him, her hand stroking and her mouth working. He hears her groan, and then he’s coming again, a wave sweeping over him.

They’re both sticky and gasping, piled up in an awkward heap. Max means to sit up, to draw away, but somehow he ends up pulling her back into his lap, licking his own come from her mouth, feeling her press against him. 

“This – isn’t – normal,” Furiosa starts, then his hand finds her clit and the words become a whimper, her hips bucking. He’s still hard, impossibly hard, groaning with relief when she slides back onto him. They’re stuck together, rutting frantically, stupid and messy and urgent. He can’t tell how long they fuck before he manages to process any of the things he’s been noticing. 

“The plant,” he gasps. “S’the plant.” It’s as much as he can do to pull away from her, from the way she’s pushing closer to him. His hands and his mouth and his cock all want her, want to bury himself in her, lose himself, ignore the warnings that his brain has been trying to scream at him. The empty air feels wrong when he could be inside her. He staggers as he gets out of bed, achingly hard and dizzy from standing up too fast, the world going silver for a moment as his vision blurs. When he grabs his jacket from the hook on the wall, he nearly loses his balance.

Stepping towards the plant is its own kind of sensory overload. That scent reaches right into him, his body responding urgently even as he’s trying to resist it. It’s all he can do not to fall back into bed, or just to start stroking himself off as fast as he can. He grips his jacket to keep his hands busy, and throws it over the little flower, bundling it up but trying not to crush it. There’s a rattling noise behind him.

“In here.” Her voice is hoarse, but she’s on her feet behind him, holding open a tin chest. There’s a scattered heap of little treasures on the bed, some of them fallen to the floor. He recognises a plaited Vuvalini belt and a toy he’d whittled for her, a lopsided attempt at carving a dog from a broken animal horn. He shoves the jacket in, forces himself not to just grab her as she shuts the lid. “We need to get out of here.” 

She drags the blanket over herself and heads for the door. Max stumbles after her, still naked from the waist down. He slams the door behind them, shutting in the scented, tainted air. Furiosa has already set off down the corridor, heading for the stairs that lead up to the green spire. Following her, he can see the blanket only just covering her buttock, see the bite marks he left on her thigh. 

Now that they’re out of the room, his head is starting to clear, his cock beginning to soften at last. As the lust fades, weariness hits: he realises how much he’s pushed his body. He does grab a canvas apron as they go past the laundry, tucking it round his waist, something to occupy his hands and a layer to keep him from trying to fuck again. He’s vaguely aware of a complaint shouted behind him, but hasn’t the time or energy to look back.

“It’s the flower,” Furiosa says, panting, barrelling into the Dag’s work room.

“DON’T OPEN THAT,” Max adds, as the Dag reaches for the tin trunk. “Aphrodisiac. Strong.” He can see the Dag’s smirk starting, but it fades as she gets a proper look at them, both shaky and dishevelled. She nods, shuts the trunk in her heavy cupboard, drapes a rug over it in an attempt to muffle the door.

“Get to the infirmary,” she says. “We can come back with breathing masks.”

Max doesn’t remember most of the journey back downstairs. The fog of need has faded into a feverish blur. He’s flagging as they make it to the sick rooms, converted from the Organic Mechanic’s lair. For once, he barely flinches from the sight and smell of this space, too focused on keeping himself upright.

“Aphrodisiac,” Furiosa says. “Left it with the Dag. Don’t know if we’re infected…” She’s swaying on her feet. Max steps forward to catch her before she falls, but his own vision is going cloudy, the floor and walls out of focus around him. 

He comes to when a bucket of water hits him. 

He’s already soaking, stripped and wet and cold in what he recognises as one of the infirmary washrooms. His skin feels as if it’s been scrubbed down. His leg is bad, with tight muscles and a vicious ache in his knee. When he looks up, he sees a monstrous face. 

It’s a long, panicky moment before he recognises an infirmary worker in goggles and breathing apparatus, still holding the bucket. Vaguely, he wonders where the water goes: it’s too precious to waste, surely now too dangerous to use normally. Maybe they can boil it, then add it to the usual greywater. His head still feels thick, his muscles sore. It’s how he feels when he’s had to go without sleep for days.

The infirmary worker – Slice? He can’t remember, between weariness and the mask – shepherds him to a quarantine room, a stark space with three basic cots. 

“Where is she?” 

“Still being washed,” Slice explains. “Take the end bed.” Max’s knees are already giving way. He wonders what they’ve done with his brace, what they’ve done with his polluted jacket. 

“We can boil your shirt and scrub the brace,” Slice says, before he can ask. “Mel’s cleaning Furiosa’s room. Fu – fu – mi – gation, she said.” It’s a good idea, but Furiosa will hate it, hate having someone else in her space, even one of the Mothers. It’s something she guards, doesn’t readily invite people in. He can feel his mind sliding away from how much this must hurt.

“We’re going to bury the jacket in sand, see if that’s enough to clean it,” Slice adds. “Mel wondered if we should bottle the sand afterwards. Mild effect, there’d be plenty of takers.” Max stares at him: he has a horrible feeling that neither Slice nor Mel were joking. He wants to argue, but the bed is right there, and he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.

When he wakes, it feels as though a long time has passed. He’s lying on his side, looking through the dim light to see someone else in the farthest bed. His whole body protests when he pushes himself up to get a better view. 

It’s Furiosa. He can’t see her face, but he couldn’t mistake the elegant line of her long neck, of her head with its fuzz of hair. She’s curled on her side, defensively, but he can just make out the rise and fall of her chest, steady in sleep. Exhaustion hits him, and he sinks back down.

When he wakes again, she’s sitting up, huddled in a blanket – one of the infirmary’s bare army squares, not the beautiful patterned fabric from her room. He wonders if that will survive boiling.

“You okay?” Her voice is bone weary, as bad as he feels. Max nods. “Mel says we should just sleep it off,” she adds, though she doesn’t sound convinced. He nods again, knows he has to tell her, can’t leave it unsaid. The little flower had been so pretty, such a small thing.

“Should have known,” he admits. “Brought it to you.” Inside the defences, he thinks, into her room. 

“There’s always risk.” She’s trying to console him. “Always. We can’t shut it out.” When he meets her eyes, she looks tired and sad, slumped against the opposite wall, so far away. “Come here.”

That’s a risk, too, that their bodies haven’t recovered, that the drug might not be out of their systems. He limps over to her anyway, sits beside her on the narrow bed. It’s a relief to realise he’s not turned on, his cock completely unresponsive. He hates the idea that he should question wanting her.

“This place has walls but it wasn’t safe.” There’s a brittle edge to her voice. He won’t ask what she’s remembering. “It’s safe now. Safe for now.” Max doesn’t know what to say, so he puts his head on her shoulder. Her skin is cool and smooth under his cheek. He is so tired, and she is so tired, and he doesn’t know how to comfort her. Furiosa reaches up to stroke her fingers through his hair. Very quietly, she adds, “Safe with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
